“Hey kid, where’d you get those ladies clubs?” the guy directly behind us calls out. We were, in those days: rubes, bumpkins, and hayseed. Callow, wet-behind-the-ears kids.

This first tee. Boston’s Franklin Park Golf Course. We had put one of our balls (not those “balls) into an opening in a long pipe. Our “cut-up” golf-ball finally showed up at the bottom. Our turn to tee off.

I had given both the honors and my first set of golf clubs to my friend Stan. Now Stan’s a great guy, but a golfer, he’s not. Too much baseball. The Vardon grip. What’s that? A type of flu?

Stan tees up. He addresses the ball. Not including myself, there are about a dozen guys watchin’. It’s like Stan’s “the blade of grass” and those who are watchin’ are the sheep.

As Stan is about to take his backswing, I’m prayin’, “Please Stan, make contact.” I say to myself, “I’ll take a hundred yards down the fairway.”

Stan swings. He whiffs. If this is a baseball game, it’s strike one. Another swing, and another miss. This is when one of the “yahoos” (a boorish, crass and stupid person) calls out, “Hey kid, where’d you get those ladies clubs?”

Finally, on his third try, Stan makes contact. He hits a duck-hook that left him about as far from the pin than when he teed off. Oh, I did make contact on my first drive, but I topped it. Well, at least the ball traveled straight down the fairway. I got my wish: about one-hundred yards.

After Stan and I “tore up” the course that day, we vowed to stick to our favorite golf pastime: miniature golf.

Oh, did I ever tell you about the time a teed off and the ball landed 50 yards behind the tee-box. A trick-shot artist, I ain't.